The goods are odd
I’m on a first date. We’re debating the price we would murder each other at.
“Ok… gun in hand. 1m, 10m, 100m, 1b, 10b, 100 billion?”
We were supposed to just grab a hot chocolate but we slipped down an open gate at a marina and time has slipped by. We are sitting cross legged across from each other at the end of a dock. Hours have passed.
I am protesting about using factors of 10 which he just waves off. I notice him watching my face as he goes up in numbers. 1m, 10m, 100m, 1b, 10b…
It is dark out now but a full moon was a few days ago and hangs bright over the bay. I notice my body feels alive playing this game.
Where is my murder him threshold? My mind flutters toward - do we have non-destructive cryopreservation yet? Would that soften the blow? Can I get around the rules of murder? Do it when he’s 120 years old? Would he want me to murder him for 100b? Under which conditions? I start considering murdering him first.
His hand is still on my ankle as we drift past 100b and the thought of murder starts to be shaped like a question. What is the price the government puts on a life? I had once read in the back pages of a government report about the Value of a Statistical Life.
We’d long passed that ceiling.
I notice my price is more about how much I value myself not being a murderer, and less about him. I wonder how much I will come to value him? What role will he play in my life? Is this just a nice walk? Will he become a close friend? My husband?
I’m on a second date. And he is running late.
I am buying time by sitting in the Four Seasons but have forgotten it is the super bowl weekend. The place is absolutely packed. I pretend to read a book and sit across from men in suits. They are loudly talking about placing bets.
He arrives, and swoops me up. He is very much not in a suit. He is wearing whatever the opposite of a suit is. I like the juxtaposition and that he came to find me and pick me up. I also like the reason why he is late.
He tells me why right before we step into a crowded elevator and it surprises me so much that I say it out loud, repeating it right back to him – and he shoots me a look.
Noted. We’re not talking about the thing. Instead I joke a little loudly in the elevator about making a prediction market on the news. He says that’s insider trading. I say, isn’t that the point? An older lady with a man in a suit catches my eye and smiles.
We leave the elevator.
We’re at dinner.
He asks what change in my life would 10x improve it?
I stare hard into the ramen in front of me trying to think hard. The problem is generating a response. I really like my life already.
Eventually I say - a baby, the ability to teleport to visit friends around the world, and not needing to sleep so I could read more books - would probably do it.
I look up and he has a look on his face. I feel a flustered protest rising in my body. Did I answer the question wrong?
I feel like I’ve broken the rules of the conversation and replaced it with a bid to play. I notice I feel vulnerable waiting to see if he will play back.
We are on a walk.
And he just. keeps. asking. me. questions.
This is sweet but intense because he does this thing where he follows questions all the way to the bottom. If something doesn’t quite make sense he just asks again in a different way until it makes sense. It is like he is trying to triangulate truth.
I feel myself wilting under this and request a ‘question tariff’. So now I am getting head scratches, as his interrogation continues on the sidewalks of San Francisco.
We’ve been on a few dates and I now have a few pieces of data that I am not sure where to place. I ask to talk and send him a google doc outlining our potential incompatibilities.
He is really chill about it and schedules a call that evening to ‘go over the points’
On the call, each of the points I bring up are matched with reason (and some dry humor) as he patiently waits for me to get through the entire list of incompatibilities. At the end he goes ‘so do you want to see me again?’
He’s ordered me two dinners because he wasn’t sure if I was allergic to the first one. I notice I feel nervous sitting at his kitchen table as he gets us water. It all feels alienly domestic. I feel more naked here than being naked.
I have a feeling we both know our time is coming to an end; the ways we are compatible are not enough to bridge the ways we are incompatible.
I want to point to the dying thing and stare at it together. Eventually I say out loud ‘this is the last time we’re going to hangout like this right?’
And he says yeah, prob.
Alas.
Two months or so go by and I reach back out.
Me: Want to do sex?
Him: We can do that.
Him: Monday or Wednesday?
It’s a Wednesday night. I look over the city and he looks over at the co2 monitor and declares it ‘dangerous math conditions’.
.
.
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((I am trying a new thing where I share more personal stories. I am not sure I will make a habit out of it but smash that subscribe if you want to try to RLHF me into more))